


Sway With Me, Go Astray With Me

by prouvairablehulk



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow - Fandom, Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Fisting, M/M, discussion of past trauma, dom/sub dynamics, not exactly Felicity friendly, not exactly Olicity friendly either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/pseuds/prouvairablehulk
Summary: In which Mick Rory and Oliver Queen discuss feelings over pizza and L&P without ever actually saying the word feelings, and somehow it turns into porn (don't ask me how, it just does)





	Sway With Me, Go Astray With Me

Oliver’s not entirely sure how this happened.

Okay, Oliver’s entirely sure how this happened, he just doesn’t want to admit it.

He flops back until he’s laying flat on his back on the training mats and closes his eyes. They’d been working with the Legends on some Time issue of some description that Oliver hadn’t really asked too many questions about, happy to play ‘point and shoot’ as required - after the explosion on Lian Yu, not bearing the burden of responsibility on occasion was very nice - when one of the men they’d been fighting had snarled something about Prometheus being right and doing right and Oliver had seen red and left a dead mess smeared on the concrete behind him. After his usual brow-beating from Felicity, both teams had fucked off to parts unknown to celebrate the successful completion of the mission, leaving Oliver to contemplate his apparent fuck-ups in solitude.

Someone clears their throat above him.

He opens his eyes to find Mick Rory standing there, pizza box in one hand and a six-pack in the other.

“You looked like you could use some company.” he says. “And it’s not like the Legends will notice I’m gone.”

Oliver snorts.

“Then we’re in the same boat, aren’t we?” he says. Rory grins, lopsided and companionable, and sits down next to him.

“Its pepperoni.” he says. “And this is L&P - a soft drink from home.” His shoulders bounce. “I figured simpler is better, and we shouldn’t give them more ammunition by drinking.”

Oliver snorts again. Rory’s blunt. He likes that, in this moment. Rory squints for a second.

“Well, for them, read her. That was quite the lecture.”

Oliver groans, and reaches for a drink.

“If you expect me to deal with that particular can of worms, I’d need actual alcohol.”

Rory shrugs again, opening the box and sliding it between the two of them.

“Look, I hate talking about -” he makes a hand gesture that Oliver knows means 'feelings’, “but you very clearly need to.”

Oliver, now sitting and drinking what is an admittedly great bottle of something non-alcholic, shoots Rory a look that says 'fuck no’.

In response, Rory drains half his bottle, and starts talking. He tells Oliver about his family, their farm, the fire he started that had killed them, foster home after foster home of people who couldn’t care for him, never being able to mourn in the way of his people. He tells Oliver about falling into crime and out of school, about arrests and Juvie. He tells Oliver all about Leonard Snart, the man he’d loved more than life itself, of Len at 12 and fighting for his life, at 16 and beaten black and blue for being gay by his father, of Len at 21 taking on the world, of Len at 26 in a cheap motel bed telling Mick that they’d get married as soon as it was legal, of Len at 32 helping Mick recover from the fire that scarred his body still, of Len at 40 with a flamethrower, of Len at 42 with a ring. He tells Oliver about Rip Hunter, and the Time Masters, and his time as Chronos - years and years of brainwashing and torture and emptiness, about what he’d done to Len, what Len had done to him, what the team had done to him after that. Oliver listens to most of it with a dropped jaw.

“I didn’t - fuck - what the fuck are they doing?” Oliver says, when he’s done. Mick - he’s definitely Mick now, rather than Rory - shrugs.

“I told you mine. Now you tell me yours.” he says. Oliver groans, takes another drink, and then does.

He tells Mick about everything, from the beginning. It’s easier somehow, when he’s just heard half the man’s life story, to tell his own in return. He tells Mick about Laurel and Sara and the Queen’s Gambit, about running from commitment, about his father pulling the trigger right in front of him, about Yao Fei and Shado and Slade (Slade, who he’d loved - not that he’d ever confessed that to anyone, except apparently Mick Rory and his uncommonly good listening skills and unfairly warm interchangeably colored eyes). He tells Mick about Ivo and Anatoly and Kovar and the totem and Constantine and working for the Bratva. He tells Mick about Waller and the Suicide Squad and Tatsu and calling Laurel just to hear her voice and emailing Tommy because he didn’t know what else to do. He tells Mick about getting off the Island and coming home and the list and telling John and asking Felicity for help. He tells Mick about how good it was, at first, about Barry, good-intentioned and making him a mask that felt more like a he was wearing belief than material, about Isabelle, malicious and lost, and Tommy, breathing out love and blood and death in the ruins of CNRI, about watching Slade come back as a corrupted shadow of the man Oliver had loved, about his mother telling him and Thea to be strong. He tells Mick about Felicity’s moralizing, about trying to change himself. He tells Mick about Sara and Nyssa and Roy and the League. He tells Mick about dying to live, to save his city. He tells Mick about Thea’s parentage and Sara’s resurrection and Constantine’s aid. He tells Mick about feeling like he couldn’t be both Oliver and the Green Arrow. He tells Mick about trying to run away wth Felicity, about Laurel and her incredible journey, about what she meant to the city. He tells Mick about Darkh and Samantha and William, about a city that raised him up, about losing Felicity because they couldn’t fathom who they had become. He tells Mick about losing Laurel, about how hollow he feels, about the recruits, about Adrian Chase and Oliver’s own legacy coming back to haunt him, and Rory Reagan, and Evelyn’s betrayal, about finding Dinah and finding Felicity again after Billy and then losing everyone only to get Slade back and then watch them all explode in a ball of flame only to get them back in ten minutes, of William, enrolled at a local private school. He tells Mick about the promise he’s made to himself, one more time, about not letting anyone in because he can’t bear to lose them.

“Shit, Robin Hood.” says Mick, when he’s done. “You need a shrink as much as I do.”

Oliver finds himself laughing, for reasons he can’t quite fathom.

“And then you need to stop letting Glasses run your life for you. Have you noticed how much she’s changed you?”

“For the better.” says Oliver, a little too quickly.

“I don’t think so.” says Mick. “It’s not for the better if it’s not coming from you. Look at Lenny and his dad.”

They’ve finished both the pizza and their soft drinks, and they’re both lying flat in their backs staring at the ceiling. Oliver turns his head to look at Mick.

“And you think it’s not coming from me?”

“It’s not.” says Mick. “You’re changing to be what she wants because you think that if you do you can make peace with a fuck ton of demons that have nothing to do with her. What do you want, Oliver Queen?”

Oliver has to think about it. No ones asked him that question about anything other than takeout orders in a very long time.

“I want to feel safe. And like I’m making a difference.” he says, at length.

“Can you do that if you’re bending over backwards to play Vigilante Lite for Glasses?” Mick asks.

“No?” guesses Oliver. He goes back at staring at the ceiling while he weighs up the evidence.

“No.” he says, more authoritatively, when he’s done.

“Does she make you feel safe?” asks Mick.

“No.” says Oliver, marveling at his own denial. He sits up.

“There you go.” says Mick, and pushes himself up on to his elbows. “You’re allowed to not want to kill anymore, Arrows. Doesn’t mean you can’t, when you have to, or that you being upset when you do is wrong, either.”

Oliver turns to look at him. He makes a fantastic view, sprawled back like this. And, now Oliver’s thinking about it, he makes him feels safe. He’s never told anyone about the Island. Not like this.

Oliver’s still an impulse-driven person, at his core, and all his impulses are telling him he should kiss Mick Rory.

So he does.

“Kissing me breaks the promise, remember?” says Mick, after he’s shoved Oliver back by his shoulders, a good two minutes into what had been a very nice makeout session.

Right, the dumbass promise Oliver made to himself to not get caught up in anything romantic until he could be sure he could prevent anything like that explosion at Liam Yu from ever happening again.

“You can take care of yourself.” he tells Mick, and moves in to kiss him again. Mick rocks back, just out of Oliver’s reach.

“Seems to me like you need someone to take care of you, too.” says Mick, obviously thinking back to everything Oliver has divulged in the last few hours. Oliver reddens a little, thinking of all the lovely things Mick could do if Oliver was just willing to give in, give over control just a bit.

Mick grins, and Oliver swears he can see flames dancing in his eyes. It’s like he knows every filthy thought that is running through Oliver’s head.

“Well, then, Robin Hood, are you gonna let me take control?”

Oliver shoves Mick back until his broad shoulders are pressed flat against the mat they’d been sitting on.

“Call me by my fucking name.” he hisses, and then kisses Mick again, hard and biting and digging his teeth in. They part again when Mick gets a handful of Oliver’s hair that’s mostly scalp and hauls him back.

“That wasn’t a no, Ollie.” Mick rumbles, smoothing his hand down until he’s got a solid grip on the scruff of Oliver’s neck. “Why don’t you give me an actual answer?”

Oliver swallows and finds himself looking away, unable to meet Mick’s gaze.

“That certainly looks like a yes, but I want to hear you say it.” says Mick, turning his hand so he can use his thumb to tilt Oliver’s head back, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You’ve gotta tell me you want it, Oliver.”

Oliver’s been the strong one for a very long time, unable to let somebody else take the lead - no one since Slade, on the island, has made him feel as safe as Mick is right now. There’s something inherently comforting about knowing that Mick won’t judge him for anything he’s done, for anything he might do. There’s no room for moralizing in Mick’s world, no harsh call to the “light”. It’s - refreshing, when it comes down to it.

It’s been almost 10 years since Oliver’s been able to not think, and hand it all over to someone else. It’s about time he got to do it again.

“I want it.” he says. “I want you to take over.”

Mick runs his thumbs over Oliver’s cheekbones and looks at him with something warm and soft in his eyes.

“You’re something else.” he says, and then rolls them so Oliver’s underneath his weight, pressed back against the mat again, safe and safe and safe and safe. He shudders a little and presses up into Mick’s body, arching his back enough to get a bit of friction. Mick grins again, all teeth, and shifts up so he’s perched too high on Oliver’s hips to give him anything to rub against, but just enough to take away any leverage Oliver might have.

“None of that, now. You’ll get off when I say you’ll get off, Kitten.”

Oliver shudders at the address. It’s a pet name, something little and soft and warm and just for him, and he hasn’t ever had someone use one of those with that level of warmth, not ever. Mick runs his hands up Oliver’s chest, fingers tracing the dips between muscles, until he can rub this thumbs over Oliver’s nipples.

Fuck.

Oliver’s painfully aware of how loud his moan was, and he freezes under Mick’s touch, unsure of how he’ll react.

Mick chuckles, low and gravel-rough.

“That was plenty loud, Kitten.” he says, and rubs again, firm and pressing, and Oliver makes the same noise as the first time, even through his gritted teeth. Mick makes a tsk-ing sort of noise at that.

“There’s no reason for you to stop.” he scolds. “You can be as loud as you want for me.”

He starts rubbing in neat little half-arcs, causing Oliver to start twitching between moans, looking for anything to push his dick against.

“I’m just pleased I found something that gets you going that much.” Mick tells him, plainly ignoring Oliver’s aborted, useless thrusts. “I want to know all of those places, all the spots that make you shiver, every little thing that makes you hopelessly desperate for me.”

Oliver shudders under the warmth in his voice, and doesn’t fight when Mick stops his movements so he can gather Oliver’s wrists up in one hand and pin them to the mat above his head.

“Look at you, Kitten.” murmurs Mick. “So good for me, you’re so good for me.”

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Oliver whimpers a little, and Mick smiles again.

“There we go, you like that too, don’t you?”

Oliver nods, something little and jerky.

“Shhhhh, Kitten, it’s okay. Can you be good and keep your hands where I put them?”

“Yes.” says Oliver, desperation sneaking into his voice. “Yes, I can -”

He forces himself to stop before he says anything incriminating, but Mick notices the cut-off in his voice anyway. Fuck, he’s so in tune with what Oliver’s feeling, more so than anyone since Laurel.

“Hey, now,” says Mick, catching Oliver’s face in his hands before Oliver can look away. “Hey now, Ollie, what is it? What is it you wanted to say?”

Safe, says Oliver’s brain. Safe, warm, just what you want. Better, it whispers, low and truthful. Better than the alternative, what you need. Tell him, it begs. Tell him and keep him and never let him go.

“Come on, Kitten, what was that you bit back to keep from me? Let me hear you.”

Oliver screws his eyes closed for a moment.

“I can do that, sir.” Oliver whispers.

When he opens his eyes again, Mick’s looking down at him with a kind of fondness Oliver had lost hope of finding again.

“So good, Ollie.” Mick croons. “You just leave them right there.”

Mick takes his hands away from Oliver’s face and his weight away from Oliver’s hips for long enough to strip them both out of their trousers, and Oliver keeps his hands just where Mick put them. Mick hums with delight when he sees this, and kisses Oliver deep and long, blanketing Oliver’s whole body with his own. He pulls back, at length, and smiles, stroking a hand through Oliver’s shorn-short hair. And then, he moves, climbing his way up Oliver’s body until he’s straddling his shoulders. Mick pauses, for a moment, and reaches for his jeans, fumbling for something in the pocket. Oliver already knows what it will be, and finds himself delighted at the fact that Mick cares enough to have a condom on hand, just in case. God knows that Oliver hasn’t, in the past. And his last partner -

Oliver wasn’t going to think about Felicity. Not now. Not when he’s so turned on he can hardly breathe and Mick Rory is straddling his shoulders and about to feed him his dick.

“Will you let me fuck that gorgeous mouth of yours, Kitten?” Mick asks, drawing Oliver out of his thoughts.

Oliver nods, probably faster than he should have if he wanted to hide how much he wanted this. But he doesn’t want to hide it - he wants Mick to know just how much he loves it, how much he wants it.

“Yes, sir, please, sir.” Oliver says, because spoken consent appears to be key for Mick.

“If it gets too much, I want you to snap your fingers to tell me. Can you do that now?”

Well, now Oliver’s totally fucked. Mick’s figured out that the easiest way to make Oliver’s knees buckle is to go for his nipples and has full command of Oliver’s praise kink, and now he’s making sure Oliver can still tap out when he can’t speak.

Safe, safe, safe, chants Oliver’s brain, and he snaps his fingers.

“Good boy.” purrs Mick. “Now, open up for me.”

It’s so easy, to just let go. Oliver’s brain is only focused on two things - Mick’s voice, and keeping his hands right where Mick told him they should stay.

“That’s it, just like that, so good, look at you, taking everything I’m giving you.” Mick says, slowly driving his hips forward and back. Oliver sucks when he can and licks when he can’t and enjoys being used in the best way he knows. Mick doesn’t stop talking, and it’s working Oliver up more than dirty talk ever has before - probably because of the content.

“That’s it, Kitten, keep going. You’re going to look so pretty, with your lips all swollen from sucking my cock, when you’re gasping while I work you open. Shall I use three, or four fingers, Kitten? Three will open you up enough that you’ll be feeling me for days, but with four I’ll slide right in. If I’ve got four in you, it’s only one more, it’s so tempting -”

Mick’s narration gets cut off by his moan, which is, in turn, due to the moan Oliver just let out at that thought. A wicked smile floats across Mick’s face.

“Oh, Ollie, you liked that, didn’t you? You love the idea of me working you so open I could slide my whole fist in.”

Oliver moans again, thrashing his legs.

“You’d bite your lips redder than red while we worked you up from one to two to three to four. And then you’d look so pretty when you were screaming for me, when every rock of my arm shoved my knuckles right up against your prostate.”

Oliver’s hips are bucking against nothing and his mouth tastes like precum and all he can smell is Mick and he’s desperate but not desperate all at the same time, frantic to come and yet ready and willing to wait for Mick’s say-so. Mick pulls back and tips Oliver’s head back too, to make sure he can speak.

“What’s your refractory period like, Kitten?”

“A little faster than average, sir.” says Oliver, truthfully. Mick shifts forward, and Oliver laves his tongue over what parts of his cock he can reach.

“Mmm, yes, keep doing that, Kitten.” says Mick, scraping one hand across Oliver’s scalp. “If that’s the case, Ollie, then I’d make you come, just like that, on my fist.”

Oliver drops his head back and moans. Mick’s grinning when he manages to look up. Mick cants his hips forward when Oliver does, shoves his dick down Oliver’s throat and holds it there, and then pulls out so Oliver can get air.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’d do. I’ll clean you up while you’re still shaking, get my tongue all over those gorgeous abs of yours. And as soon as I’m done with that, I’ll slide right in. There’ll be no resistance, not after I’ve had my whole fist in you. I’ll be able to shove right into you, and then fuck you until you’re screaming again, screaming my name. I’ll fuck you until you come all over yourself again, and then I’ll roll you over and ride your ass until I come all over it.” Mick tells him. Oliver’s sure his eyes are rolling back in his head and his thighs are shaking. He snaps his fingers, once, twice. Mick pulls off instantly.

“Too much, Ollie?” he asks.

“No, sir.” says Oliver, and Mick looks confused.

“Not enough, sir.” Oliver says, in response to the questioning eyebrow. “Please, sir, I want you to do it, sir, everything you just said, I want you to do it, please, please.”

Mick strokes Oliver’s face again.

“Oh, Kitten, you’re so good for me. Begging so prettily for me to use you just like I want. So perfect. But if we’re going to do that, I want a bed and a gallon of lube. Do you have that, Kitten?”

Oliver thinks wistfully of the loft, which Felicity is staying in “until she finds her own place”, thinks of the broad bed, thinks of Mick in the kitchen, smiling, when Oliver gets back from a hard day at City Hall. It would be so nice to take Mick there now, to let him cuff Oliver to that headboard, to have an arsenal of toys for Mick to discover, to use. It would be so nice to know there’s eggs and ingredients for omelettes and Oliver’s favorite sourdough in the kitchen for when they wake up in the morning.

One day. He’ll hold on to that for one day. For now, he’s got a cot and a literal gallon pump bottle of lube, and that’s going to do the job just fine.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Where?”

“There’s a cot just around the corner, there, and lube. It’s where I’ve been staying.”

Mick looks contemplative for a moment. Then he seems to come back to himself.

“If that’s the case, then that’s where we’ll go.” Mick says, and swings himself off Oliver. Oliver rolls over into all fours, taking a moment to steady himself.

“Well now, that’s a pretty sight, Kitten.” says Mick. “I’m so glad our plan for the night is going to give me such a good view of this fantastic ass of yours.”

Oliver smiles to himself, a little dopey, he’s sure. Mick’s on his feet before Oliver is, and into the alcove with the cot before Oliver makes it to the corner. When he does round the corner, Oliver can see that Mick’s already brought the lube over and is laying a towel over the blanket on the bed to catch the excess. Oliver’s knees are still weak with arousal, and he gives in and let’s them crumble.

“Kitten?” Mick asks, taking a few steps towards Oliver. “Are you all right?”

Oliver, on all fours, nods.

“Fine, sir. You said you liked the view?”

Mick actually laughs as he walks backwards until he can sit on the cot.

“That’s my Kitten.” he says, voice full of joy. “Are you going to put on a show for me?”

Oliver smirks, and then crawls, as sexily as he can, over to where Mick is sitting, legs sprawled wide. Mick’s eyes dilate to the point where Oliver can’t tell their shade as he approaches, and then Mick’s guiding him so he’s kneeling between Mick’s knees.

“I think I want to hear you beg, Kitten.” says Mick. “For exactly what it is you want.”

Oliver swallows, hard, and then opens his mouth.

“Please, sir, I want you to open me up so you can get your whole fist in me. I want you to pound your fist into my ass until I come untouched. I want you to pull your fist out and slide your dick in while I’m still clenching from my orgasm. I want you to fuck me so hard I go hoarse screaming your name and come again, and then I want you to get me on my knees and fuck me from behind until you’re coming, and I want you to mark me with your come.”

Mick makes a soft little surprised noise.

“Like it rough, don’t you, Kitten? I can do rough for you. I can do all of that for you. I just want one more thing. Tell me you’re mine, Kitten.”

“I’m yours.” says Oliver, fervently.

“And I can believe it.” whispers Mick, mostly to himself. “Alright, Ollie, up on the bed, on your back.”

Oliver goes where he is told, relaxes his legs out in a wide sprawl, and raises his hands back over his head, as they had been before.

“So good.” says Mick, smoothing one hand over the inside of Oliver’s thigh and teasing the first lubed finger of the other around Oliver’s hole. Oliver groans and tries to shove down on the intrusion, only for Mick to take his hands away.

“I’m sorry, who’s in charge here?” he asks, almost jovial.

“You are, sir.”

“Damn right I am. Hold onto your ankles, keep those legs spread wide.”

Oliver does as he’s told. It’s so good, so nice, so easy, so safe.

“Two birds, one stone. You have less leverage, and I get such a lovely view of the hole I’m going to fuck.”

A shudder rocks all the way through Oliver at Mick’s words, and he knows he’s panting for breath. Mick finally slides the finger in, and all his breath pushes out in a rush.

“Yessssss!” Oliver hisses, and Mick chuckles, turns his wrist a few times, slides in a second. The first time he scissors them punches a gasp out of Oliver.

“So good, Kitten, you just keep taking it.” Mick murmurs, and opens Oliver enough to push in three, pressing hard and firm against Oliver’s prostate. There’s nothing but an endless high-pitched whine coming out of Oliver’s mouth, and his knuckles are white on his ankles. Mick’s petting the inside of Oliver’s thigh with his free hand, soft and strong. Mick slides in four, dripping wet with lube, and Oliver drops his head back, lets it bounce on the mattress while Mick works him over, stretches him out until he’s shaking and rolling his hips ineffectually down.

“I think we should tie you up, next time.” says Mick, thumb teasing against Oliver’s rim. “Tie up your hands and your ankles, keep you just where I want you. Get a ring on you, keep you on the edge for hours.”

“Yes, sir, yes, fuck, please.” says Oliver, which is both his opinion and the extent of his vocabulary at this moment. Mick smiles, pleased, and pushes a little firmer with his thumb.

“Are you ready?” asks Mick, and Oliver can hear the second question underneath, the 'do you still want this’ that was present but unsaid.

“Please, sir.” Oliver begs, beyond shame. Mick makes a comforting little noise and slides his thumb forward, slowly and wetly easing the widest part of his hand into Oliver, turning his wrist slowly until he’s satisfied. The push-pull of his arm is perfect, strong and solid and sure, and Oliver can feel the heat building in his chest.

“Please, sir, more.” he begs, tossing his head back and forth because it’s all the movement he can make without breaking one of Mick’s rules.

“You want more, Ollie?” purrs Mick. “Want me to take you fast and hard and rough?”

“Yes.” pants Oliver. “Please.”

“Next time, Kitten. Next time, when I tie you down and we’ve talked about this more.”

Oliver whines in protest, and Mick smiles.

“Let me show you it’s okay to let yourself be looked after. Let me show you you’re safe.” Mick tells him, still smoothing his free hand up and down Oliver’s inner thigh. His fist is still moving, slow and inexorable, and Oliver knows he’s close.

“Look at you.” says Mick. “Look at you, taking it so well, my perfect Ollie, right here where I can look after you. You don’t have to worry about anything but me.”

Mick’s knuckles are rubbing against Oliver’s prostate with every movement, just like he’d promised they would. Oliver’s so close - he’s almost there - he just needs a little more -

“My good Kitten. All mine.” says Mick, and pushes back in hard and sure. The words send a shiver through Oliver, push him so close to the brink a heavy breath will knock him over.

“Sir, can I, please can I -”

“Are you asking for permission to come, Kitten? Oh, oh you’re so perfect. Yes, Ollie, my Ollie, you can come.”

Mick’s knuckles scrape over Oliver’s prostate one more time, and then he does - he comes with a guttural kind of scream, without a hand on him, just like Mick had said he would, just like Oliver had begged for.

He’s still reeling through the aftershocks when he feels Mick pulling his hand out, murmuring something low that Oliver’s not quite registering. When he focuses a little, the words become clear.

“So good, Kitten, all mine and so good, you’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you, so perfect on my dick, all mine, my Ollie.”

Oliver whines, and Mick thrusts in. Just like he’d promised, while Oliver’s still shaking his way down, smooth and strong and with little to no resistance. It’s so good.

“Is it, Kitten?” asks Mick, and oh, Oliver must have said that out loud. Mick smiles again, that warm safe smile that’s got Oliver so wrapped up in knots. He tells Mick it is good, it’s so good, he feels full and perfect and just right. Mick pulls Oliver’s legs around him, wraps Oliver’s thighs around his hips and pushes in deeper, smoother. Oliver clenches his legs and pushes back against Mick’s thrusts, wraps his arms around Mick’s shoulders and pulls him down for a kiss. Mick goes, kissing him with enthusiasm, and sneaking a hand between then to wrap around Oliver’s rapidly hardening dick.

“That’s it, that’s my good Kitten, come on, that’s it.” Mick purrs, right into Oliver’s ear.

Oliver loses track after that, drifts somewhere warm and happy and safe. He can feel Mick fucking him - and holy god does it feel good - but he has no idea how long they’ve been in this position, how long Mick’s hand has been wrapped loosely around Oliver’s now-hard dick, how long Oliver’s been whining and writhing and panting for air because it feels so good, chanting Mick’s name whenever he has breath in his lungs.

“Do you think you can come for me?” asks Mick, cutting through the haze. Oliver nods, somewhere beyond words. He feels like he could do anything Mick asks.

“Good, that’s my good Ollie. Come on then, come for me.” says Mick, and he tightens his grip around Oliver, and Oliver does, he comes just as instructed, to the soundtrack of Mick’s gravelly praise in his ear.

“I know I said I was going to flip you over, Kitten, but right now I just want to make even more of a mess of those gorgeous abs of yours - will you let me do that?” Mick asks, running a hand through the come on Oliver’s skin. Fuck, that sounds good. Oliver nods, and Mick slips out of him, straddles his thighs again, and wraps his hand around himself. Oliver just lays there, lets his arms fall over his head and arches his back a little. Mick’s breathing hard when he comes, and he lets out a harsh little grunt from between clenched teeth. They both just stay, catching their breath, for a good long moment, before Mick slides off.

“Let me clean us up.” says Mick, after a few minutes of him stroking Oliver’s hair. “Do you want to come with me, or will you be alright for a moment while I’m gone?”

Oliver hums, still coming back from the pleasant floaty place he’d gone, and contemplates the question.

“As long as you come back-” he starts.

“I’m definitely coming back.” says Mick, and when Oliver looks over he’s got an appreciative, lewd grin on his face. Oliver sniggers, and then goes back to blinking slowly.

“I’ll be good for a couple of minutes.”

Mick nods, and swings himself off the bed, disappearing around the corner to the bathroom. Oliver swirls his fingers through the still mostly-wet come on his stomach and thinks. With Mick, he’d been able to switch off entirely, just hand himself over and relax, a feeling he desperately needs. And Mick understands him, gets the years of trauma, the baseless but unshakeable guilt, the need on occasion to do something dark so that someone else can stay in the light. Mick’s lost people he loves too, had to watch and not be able to do anything. And it’s not like he’s going to leave - five faberge eggs and the chance to start the Great Fire of London couldn’t get Mick Rory back onto the Waverider, not without Leonard Snart. But given their line of work, and the alarming regularity with which people came back from the dead -

“Well, that’s an image I’m holding onto for the next ten years.” says Mick. He’s got a damp washcloth in one hand and a fresh towel in the other, and he’s smiling, soft and warm. Oliver’s suddenly aware of the ridiculous porn-shoot nature of his current pose, and ducks his head, cheeks flushing. He didn’t think he was capable of blushing anymore, but apparently Mick Rory is very good at making him do things he’d never thought he’d do again.

Mick cleans Oliver up with care and practiced ease, and then gets them both into sweatpants, before arranging them on the narrow bed so Oliver’s head is pillowed on Mick’s chest. He’s got his fingers back in Oliver’s hair - which is very nice, and Oliver is going to insist on happening regularly if the rest of this conversation goes well - when Oliver speaks up.

“So, when you were talking about us negotiating this more thoroughly-” Oliver says, hoping Mick will just put him out of his misery and give him a straight answer.

“We definitely will be.” says Mick, firmly. “I will make you dinner and we will hash out all the details and make sure we have a good understanding of each other’s limits. And then I am absolutely tying you up and having my way with you.”

Mick pauses, like he’s running through what he’s just said to make sure he’s touched on all salient points. Then he seems to remember something.

“As long as that’s what you want, of course.”

Oliver finds himself smiling like a giddy child.

“Yeah. That’s absolutely what I want.”

Wait, there was something else he’d wanted to ask.

“And if Len were to come back? Would you still stay with me?”

Mick pauses, obviously not expecting the question. He ponders it for a while. Oliver listens to his heartbeat.

“I think if Lenny came back, he’d be more than willing to stay here with us.” he says, finally. “As long as you were willing to share me, of course.”

Oliver blinks, dumbstruck. He’d known Len and Mick were married, but hadn’t considered the arrangement could be like the one he was now creating with Mick.

“Is he more on my end of things, or yours?” Oliver asks, for clarification’s sake. “Hypothetically considering his return.”

“Yours.” says Mick, with a rumbling laugh Oliver feels more than hears.

Oliver has to shake himself out of the very pretty pictures in his head in order to answer.

“I might be amenable to a little more than sharing.” he says, and Mick presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Nap now. Hypothetical hookup discussions later.” says Mick.

Oliver tables the very enjoyable fantasy he’d been contemplating of Mick’s thrusts shoving a bound Len Snart’s cock further down his throat, and lets Mick’s breathing lull him to sleep.

Two nights later, everything goes to shit while the team is breaking up an arms deal and Oliver has to shoot someone before they can shoot a police officer, and puts the arrow through their throat without thinking. Post-explosion, most of the team is more relaxed in their “what the fuck Ollie you can’t just kill people” attitude (which Oliver is laying entirely at the feet of Slade Wilson, who banged heads and told stories until the full extent of Oliver’s Lian Yu experience was at least hinted at enough to make Rene and Curtis and Dinah understand. John has understood for a long time now). Felicity, however, is almost worse than she used to be. They get back to the Bunker to find her standing at the door with her hands planted on her hips, chest already inflating so she can give them all - especially Oliver - some kind of long lecture on morality. Oliver walks past her without a second thought and heads to where Mick is sitting on a table near the training room.

“Hey, Ollie.” says Mick, soft and warm like he always is, even when he’s got Oliver bent over his knee. “Come here.”

Oliver goes, and crumples into his arms, trusting Mick to keep him anchored, and trusting his team to not take advantage or discouragement from his emotion. Mick gets his fingers back into Oliver’s hair and starts stroking, happy to wait just like that until Oliver gets his breathing back under control.

“You were going to say something, Glasses?” says Mick, nonchalantly.

Felicity doesn’t say anything, and Oliver stays in the warmth of Mick’s arms.


End file.
